Melite saw the lost expression on her daughter’s face when Lyonene came into the Great Hall. She knew her son-in-law had gone, and now the long three weeks’ wait stretched before them. Melite sighed. To her daughter it would be an eternity, but to herself there didn’t seem to be enough time for all that had to be done.
First of all, there were clothes to be made. Although there was not a big enough dowry for Lyonene to make a difference to an earl, Melite planned to dress her daughter as befitted a countess. She set out to look for William, for only he had the key to the storeroom that held most of the portable wealth of Lorancourt.
William complained somewhat, but he finally agreed with his wife that Lyonene must be clothed properly. Jewels and furs, satins, silks, velvets and fine wools were brought from the dark, cool room. Lyonene gasped at the beauty of the stuffs, afraid to cut them and chance ruining the materials.
For three weeks, Gressy, Meg, Lucy, Melite and Lyonene sewed. They outlined tiny lions with green silk thread along the border of one tunic, filled the space with lamb’s wool and covered it to make padded animals. Each lion was bordered with tiny seed pearls.
Her wedding gown was given special attention. It was a tunic of saffron samite silk, very tight, and its sleeves were fastened with a row of tiny buttons from wrist to elbow. The sideless surcoat of tawny velvet was cut away drastically to reveal the generous curves of Lyonene’s breasts and hips. The wedding mantle was of green brocade from Sicily. Pale-green phoenix with tails ready to burst into flame were woven onto a darker green background, and the entire cloak and hood were lined in rabbit fur that had been dyed a third shade of green.
Lyonene wished fervently that she had gotten her betrothed’s measurements for a tabard to make as a wedding gift, but she finally settled on two gold cups. She did not notice her father’s white face as he arranged for a goldsmith to come to Lorancourt to hammer two of his four precious gold plates into stemmed, jewel-encrusted goblets. To Lyonene, it was reassuring to hear the man and his apprentice hammering for hours each day as they formed the gold sheets around iron balls to make the shape of the cups. She knew that as the cups took shape, the time came closer for her wedding day.
Each night she fell into bed exhausted, as Melite had planned, but always there was the sweet vision of Ranulf before she slept. There were things she began to remember that had not bothered her when they were together. She thought often of his earldom, of the court of King Edward, where Ranulf would be a frequent visitor. She began to question his reasons for marrying her, and as the day approached she found herself jumping at every little noise and crying often. Gressy’s added stories of the horrors of the Black Lion did not help her growing anxiety.
Geoffrey grimaced. If his besotted brother asked once more if Lady Lyonene were not beautiful, he would use his estoc and calmly slip the blade between the man’s ribs. They had ridden hard to reach London in one night, and Geoffrey looked forward to a soft bed, with maybe a barmaid to keep him warm.
Ranulf did not like London with its open sewer trenches along the streets and all the scavenging pigs that roamed about eating the slops. The streets were narrow, and no air reached the riders between the three-and four-story buildings. The inn where they had spent the night was only fairly clean.
He rode along the street of the goldsmiths until he found the sign he wanted. Only three of the Black Guard had accompanied him, the other four tending to Geoffrey, who refused to leave his bed and his plump barmaid so early in the morning.
Alone, Ranulf entered the cramped little shop. A small, dark man came forward.
“I would purchase a gift, a bride gift, and I would have your finest work.”
“All my work is my finest. What is your desire?”
Both men stared at one another, both unsmiling but understanding the other.
“I would have a belt, a very special belt. It is to be of your purest gold and your finest wire. There are to be lions—a lion and his lioness, and there are to be scenes in the manner of lions hunting together, at the kill…” Ranulf stopped, feeling embarrassment before this solemn little man.
“I understand. Now what of colors?”
“The male lion is to be enameled in the blackest of black and in the gold eye is to be a black pearl. The lioness…” Ranulf closed his eyes for a second in delicious memory. “The lioness is to be the true tawny gold of a lioness, and the eye is to be set with an emerald.” Ranulf paused, remembering Lyonene’s emerald eyes. “It is to be links, each link containing a scene, and no longer than my finger to the first joint, no wider than my thumb. Can you do such delicate work?”
“If I am paid enough gold, I can do anything.”
Ranulf stiffened. “There will be gold aplenty.”
“What size is the lady? How many links?”
Ranulf was puzzled. He held up his hands, forming a circle. “I can span her waist with my hands.”
The jeweler made some mental notes. “Ten and five lengths. Now the clasp. Of what is it to be made?”
Ranulf considered for a moment. “A black pearl and an emerald.” They talked for a few moments of price and set a date to have the completed piece. He returned to the inn satisfied. Geoffrey had spent the day in a more leisurely fashion and was now ready to leave. The two brothers prepared to leave. Geoffrey parted from his brother to return to his duties as squire to Sir Tompkin.
It took two long, grueling days to reach Malvoisin, and Ranulf again marveled at the even, gray stone walls as they towered before him. He and his men made their way through the west barbican into the outer bailey amid cheers and hallos from the many castlefolk. They dismounted as they entered the maze wall that protected the private inner bailey. His steward, chief falconer, master cook and head stableman lived with their families in the apartments in the quiet inner bailey.
The Black Guard went to their own abode while Ranulf made his way to Black Hall.
For the entire time he was at Malvoisin it rained, and although he judged many cases in the hundred court, too often the people could not venture out in the deep mud.
The rain kept him inside the stone walls of Black Hall. A few times he had joined his men, but they had their own women and were content. He was anxious, and the constant pounding of the rain made him more so.
He sat before the fire, another cup of strong wine in his hand. The house was silent, for it was late and the servants abed. He tried to remember the two days he had spent at Lorancourt but could not grasp a clear picture. Too long he had had no reason for laughter, too many years he had been haunted by the words of a dying woman.
A flash of lightning lit the room briefly. It had been raining that night, too. She, the woman who was called his wife, had come home late, the little three-year-old Leah, her daughter, trying hard to keep pace with her mother.
He had been married to her for three years and had never once bedded her. At first he had been awed by her, green young boy that he was and she years older. She’d laughed and said Ranulf might love her when he was worthy of her, when he had become the strongest knight in all of England.
Men thought he trained now, but in those days he had rarely slept or eaten, so determined was he to please his wife. He had not protested when he knew a child was to be born, and later the little girl had been a joy to him, a balm against his evil, adulterous wife.
By the time he realized she slept with other men—many other men—he was too attached to Leah to think of sending the child’s mother away.
Ranulf stood and walked closer to the fire, his head on his hands against the stone mantel. He had not thought she hated him enough to kill the little girl he’d grown to love.
When they’d returned home on that wet night, there had been a triumphant look on Isabel’s face as she’d watched Ranulf lift the shivering child. He never left Leah’s side during the three days that the fever consumed her. It was only after her death that he had heard of his wife’s illness, that she too lay on her deathbed.
Her horrible dying words came to him. “I am glad she is dead, because I am dying also and I would take all from you that I could. I loved a man once, Leah’s father, but he was poor and my father would not have him. You were there with all your riches and all your men, and you took away the one I loved. Do you think I could ever bear your black ugliness, that any woman could? No, Ranulf de Warbrooke, no woman will ever love aught about you but your fine furs and gold cups. Go now and get a priest and never let me need to look on your devil’s blackness again.”
He crumbled the silver cup he held, jewels flying about the room, blood-red wine covering his hand. He should not have betrothed himself again! There were too many likenesses between this marriage and the other—a father eager to have an earl for a son, a girl… He sat down again.
No, there were no similarities between Isabel and Lyonene. But what of this young girl? She had seemed to feel the same for him as he for her, yet he had never felt so for another. For what he knew, she could have treated many men before him with the same eagerness, the same desire.
The storm grew worse and his temper with it. It seemed that his every memory of his betrothed pointed to some falseness, some deceit.
Hodder found his master asleep in the solar the next morn, and when he was awakened, the blackness of his mood matched his coloring. The thin valet watched his lord grow steadily worse in temper each day, eating little, drinking over much, remaining unwashed, unshaven.
The rain continued, wetting everything, seeping into crevices and dulling moods. It was with joy that Corbet greeted the sun on the day they were to leave for Lorancourt. The seven men were ready and waiting in the courtyard for their master, but he did not come.
Hugo Fitz Waren, oldest of the Black Guard, sought him out.
“My lord, the sun is high. We must make haste to reach Lorancourt for the marriage.”
“I do not go. I will send Sir William wagons of gold to repay him, but I do not marry again.”
Hugo sat on a stool at Ranulf’s feet and tried to control his gasp at the sight of his master. “So the great Black Lion fears a girl half his age and less than half his size? And what will you send the girl to compensate her for the loss of the husband she loves?”
“Do you not know the Earl of Malvoisin is too rich to ever be loved?”
“He is not too rich to wallow in his own pity. You may look at me so, but I do not fear you. I know of this other wife of yours.”
“Do not speak of her to me.”
“Until I am forcibly silenced, I will speak. You cannot blame all women for the faults of one.”
“They are alike, these wives of mine.”
“They are somewhat akin, I agree, both being baron’s daughters. You are a man of honor and have not seen the girl for some time. When you see her again you will forget your fears.” Hugo leaned closer and saw his master was no little drunk.
“Hodder! Throw some clothes on your master. We go to Lorancourt and return with a wife. Be sure his wedding garments are packed.”
It was a tired, confused Ranulf who rode north to Lorancourt. His head ached and his stomach burned, but it was all better than thinking and hearing the voices that haunted him.